For a little while after that, time ceased behaving like something measurable.
It became a sequence of smaller things instead. Frederik's uneven breathing under the blanket. The weight of him in Rafael's arms. Gregoris was standing so close that Rafael could feel the heat of him even through the exhaustion still hollowing out his bones. The soft crackle of the fire. The silence left behind by everyone wise enough to retreat.
At some point Rafael slept, and Gregoris sat down beside the bed.
Frederik made a noise so offended and indignant that Rafael woke, already irritated on his behalf, only to find Gregoris holding the child with the kind of grave concentration usually reserved for battlefield maps and assassination briefings.
That, in retrospect, should have warned everyone.
Because Frederik did not grow into a peaceful child.
He grew into a Frasner.
